


A Season of Discovery and Delights

by MidtownKitten



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bisexuality, Everyone is Queer, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Lesbian Sex, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidtownKitten/pseuds/MidtownKitten
Summary: Another season is starting and Eloise and Benedict are both out of sorts. They each long for something more, something that feels just out of reach... until suddenly, what - or whom - they desire is right there in front of them. Will they take the risk?A blatant queering of the canon for my fellow Eloise/Pen and Benedict/Granville shippers out there!
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton & Henry Granville, Eloise Bridgerton & Penelope Featherington
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

“Pen, are you even listening to me?”

Penelope Featherington turned from the window with a start at her friend’s demand. She returned to the edge of the bed and looked Eloise up and down. “I confess, El, I was not,” she said. “But in my defense, this is the third gown you’ve tried and while you’ve managed to find some fault with all of them, the truth is, they are all perfectly lovely and you look perfectly lovely in them.”

They both stared at Eloise’s reflection in the mirror. Penelope offered an encouraging smile, but faltered at the misery she saw in her friend’s face. It was true, the dresses Madame Delacroix had fashioned for Eloise’s debut season were beautiful - all shades of sea green and robin’s egg blue that complimented Eloise’s turquoise eyes and chestnut hair. But it was not the gowns that were the problem. It was the girl who wore them. 

“I can barely breathe,” Eloise protested, “much less promenade and pirouette and all the other nonsense that will be expected of us. How can you stand it?”

Penelope and her sisters had made their debut last season, but they might as well have been invisible. How could they possibly have been expected to attract a suitor’s attention when all eyes had been fixed on the season’s diamond, Daphne Bridgerton? Her courtship and eventual marriage with the handsome Duke of Hastings had been the talk of the ton - and of course, a subject of great interest for the mysterious Lady Whistledown. Penelope allowed herself a small, secret smile for her alter ego, a prank played on a whim that had grown into something - someone- more powerful than she could have imagined. 

Penelope returned to the window and scanned the street outside the Bridgerton Estate. “Oh, it’s not so bad, really,” she replied absently. “I rather like dancing. It’s quite romantic, don’t you think?”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “Penelope Featherington, I never took you for an empty-headed pigeon,” she said, struggling to unbutton and unlace the layers of silk and chiffon in which she was swathed. “All those balls, those silly little picnics - you must know they are the most contrived of all things, everyone fluttering their fans, making inane conversation, the mamas sizing everyone up from the sidelines like we’re all prized pigs at a fair. I can’t think of anything less romantic!”

“I suppose,” Penelope said, already tuning out Eloise’s ranting, which she had heard many times before. Outside, there were no carriages to be seen. And no letter from Colin in weeks. Penelope bit her lip. He had said he’d be back from his travels within the month, but things could change. Perhaps he’d fallen ill. Or worse, fallen in love. But he wouldn’t miss the start of the season. He couldn’t! And Penelope, for her part, couldn’t wait to see him again. She had hoped that in his absence, she might forget her hopeless crush on Colin Bridgerton, but true to his word, he had written her from abroad and with each letter full of his wit and sweetness and wonder at the world, her feelings for him had only grown stronger. This season, Penelope had resolved, she would finally tell him the truth of how she felt. Whether or not he felt the same way remained to be seen. 

“Pen, help me with this!” Eloise interrupted Penelope’s thoughts and she hurried back to help Eloise undo her corset laces until she was able to wriggle free of the constricting garment. Left in nothing but her chemise, Eloise flopped onto the bed and gazed despondently at the ceiling. Penelope looked down at her and felt her breath catch, as it sometimes unexpectedly did when she was with Eloise. In the afternoon sunlight, her naked limbs were long and pale, her hair tousled and shining. Penelope found herself wondering if Eloise’s lips were as soft as they looked, what they might feel like pressed to bare skin. 

Penelope turned away and busied herself picking up the heap of dresses Eloise had left discarded on the floor. She didn’t know why she was afflicted with such unnatural thoughts. And in truth, it was not just Eloise she thought of. Alone in her bed, Penelope had imagined equally indecent acts between herself and Marina - her own distant cousin, if her late father was to be believed - while Marina had slept not but a few paces down the hall. Sometimes it was Eloise, sometimes Marina, sometimes Colin, sometimes Marina and Colin together, both of their hands on her body, both of them pushing her towards that explosion of pleasure she had learned to set off with her own exploring fingers. 

Penelope touched a hand to her suddenly flushed cheek.  _ Pull yourself together,  _ she admonished herself.  “It won’t be so bad, El,” she said, hanging the gowns in the armoire that used to be Daphne’s and now belonged to Eloise, although she had considerably fewer frocks to fill it. “Perhaps you’ll meet someone special.”

“Not bloody likely,” Eloise retorted. 

“And even if you don’t,” Penelope continued, “it’s hardly the end of the world. There’s always next season.”

“Yes, yes, there’s next season and the season after that and the season after that until it’s just embarrassing to parade me about any longer and I must accept my fate as a spinster, destined to be scorned and pitied till the end of my days.” Eloise sat up, eyes flashing. “Why are these the only choices afforded to us, Pen? Marriage and motherhood or… or nothing at all! Anthony gets to go off to university although I can assure you he does not possess an academic bone in his body. Colin gets to go abroad and see the world. Benedict gets to be an artist and chase his painterly dreams down all manner of questionable paths. Why can’t we do those things too?”

“I didn’t know you had artistic aspirations,” Penelope said dryly.

“I don’t!” Eloise replied. “You couldn’t tell a dog from a doorknob if I drew them, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” Penelope asked, affection outweighing exasperation for Eloise’s complaints. 

“The point, Pen, is that I could be the next Michelangelo and it wouldn’t matter because I am a woman and a Bridgerton and those things together have left me with only the smallest sliver of life that I am allowed to live and it’s simply not fair.” Eloise sighed wistfully. “If only I could be like Lady Whistledown - independent, worldly, not beholden to anyone. She says what she wants, does what she wants, and no one can do a thing to stop her.”

“We can hardly presume to know what Lady Whistledown’s circumstances might be,” Penelope said, joining Eloise on the bed. “We don’t even know if she’ll continue to publish this season or not.”

“Oh, but she must!” Eloise cried. “Otherwise, the last everyone will remember of her is how she implicated our dear Colin in a scandal, and that won’t do. If one good thing is to come out of this season, it will be that I finally succeed in my mission to discover Lady Whistledown’s true identity once and for all.” Eloise looked at Penelope. “You’ll help me, won’t you Pen?”

Penelope smiled. “Of course, El,” she said. “We’re in this together, after all.”

The sound of a carriage pulling up to the house brought Penelope to her feet and rushing back to the window.  _ Colin _ , she thought, her heart in her throat.  _ Colin is home. _

Eloise was unconcerned. “Who is it?” she asked, slipping back into her simple grey shift. 

There was a long pause. Eloise couldn’t have known it, but Penelope was working very hard to hold tears of disappointment at bay. When Penelope spoke, her voice was clear and chipper. “Why, it’s Benedict,” she said. “And he’s got a gentleman with him.”


	2. Chapter 2

Benedict Bridgerton hopped down from his carriage and led the esteemed painter, Henry Granville, into his home. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. It had been a long winter and Granville had been abroad with his wife for most of it - teaching in France, Benedict had heard. But according to Genevieve Delacroix, the real reason Mr. and Mrs. Granville wintered in Paris was because there they could enjoy - how had she put it - a like-minded community of free thinkers. 

Genevieve’s company - and the pleasures of her bed - had been a welcome way to pass the long months of cold, but Benedict knew that for Genevieve, he was merely a placeholder for someone else. He wasn’t entirely sure whose place she was holding for him. Or maybe he was sure, but wasn’t ready to speak it, not yet. 

When Genevieve had received word from Lucy Granville that she and Henry would be returning to London for the season, Benedict could not deny some part of him had thrilled at the thought of seeing Granville again; of going to his soirées, of drinking together and painting together, perhaps of stumbling in on Granville and Wetherby together as he had done before, but this time, maybe, of being asked to stay, to watch, to touch, and to be touched in return. 

Running into Granville at the Club not an hour earlier had been a surprise. He was dressed fashionably, as usual, his clothes tailored perfectly to his frame, his voice sending familiar warmth through Benedict’s body. 

“Bridgerton!” he had said, “Pleasure to see you again.”

“Granville, hello. Welcome back! I trust you enjoyed your time in France?”

“Indeed we did! Autumn in Paris is picturesque to a fault.”

Without thinking, Benedict asked, “And Mr. Wetherby - was he able to join you?” He only realized his mistake when Granville paused and glanced furtively around to see who might be listening. “I apologize,” Benedict said quickly, “I didn’t mean -“

“Yes, as a matter of fact, Mr. Wetherby had some business to attend to in Paris,” Granville cut in smoothly. “Lucy and I were pleased to have him lodge with us while he was in the city. He had to return home sooner rather than later though. His wife is with child.”

Granville smiled when he said it, but the sadness clouding his bright eyes, the slight sag of his shoulders under the weight of all that he could not say, made Benedict’s heart ache. “I’ve been practicing,” he blurted out, not knowing how else to fill the silence between them, but not yet ready for the conversation to end. “Just as you told me to, although I can’t say if I’m improving. I was thinking, if it’s not too much of a bother, you might come look at my work sometime. I would… appreciate your guidance.”

Something in Granville’s gaze shifted and he gave Benedict a long look. “Would you?” he asked softly. 

“Yes,” Benedict replied, even as his face reddened and his heartbeat quickened. It didn’t feel as if they were merely talking of painting anymore. “I would. No rush, of course. Whenever you find yourself free.”

“I’m free now.”

“Oh. Well then. My carriage is outside.”

“Lead the way, Bridgerton.”

And so it was that Benedict found himself leading Henry Granville through the foyer, past his father’s study where Anthony now holed himself up, nursing his broken heart, past the sitting room and dining room to the small wing of rooms off from the kitchen. When his youngest siblings, Hyacinth and Gregory, had been babies, their nursery had been made here, close to the nursemaid’s room and a good distance away from where the rest of the family slept, so as not to wake the whole household with their nightly squalling. Now it had been years since either nursery or nursemaid had been needed and the rooms had been draped and shuttered for some time. Nobody had batted an eye when Benedict quietly began using the space as a makeshift studio, pushing the furnishings aside to make room for his easels and canvasses, his palettes, charcoal, and paint. 

On one of the small side tables, stood a bowl of fruit and a pair of candlesticks reflecting the midday light. And there, in front of it, was Benedict’s half-finished attempt to capture the scene. There were other similar works leaning against the walls - a pile of books, a bottle of wine and two glasses, snow falling outside the nursery window. Granville made his way from piece to piece, his expression thoughtful, cocking his head this way and that, saying nothing.  Eventually, he turned to Benedict and said, “You are indeed improving, Bridgerton. These are well done, if perhaps…”

“Go on,” Benedict prompted. “I can take it.”

“Well…” Granville shrugged. “Lacking in feeling.”

Benedict hesitated a moment, then said, “I have others which might be more to your liking.” He led Granville into the smaller room where the nursemaid had once slept. There was less light, a single chair and narrow bed, and oddly out of place, an ornate full length mirror. Benedict reached past Granville, brushing his shoulder as he did so, to close the door behind him. Then, from behind the mirror, he pulled two canvasses covered by white sheets, so that they looked like any other piece of unused furniture. He placed them side by side on the bed, carefully removed their covering, and stood back so that Granville could take a closer look. 

“My word,” Granville said, staring at the paintings. The first was of Genevieve Delacroix, sprawled across the velvet settee in her flat, nude but for a string of pearls around her neck. And the second, was of Benedict himself; a self-portrait of his own naked form reflected in the mirror, every detail of his body rendered in gorgeous, painstaking detail. 

“I still can’t get the hands quite right,” Benedict said. “And the curve of the shoulders is all wrong. You told me to work on that, but in the absence of your models, I had to be a bit resourceful.”

“This is excellent,” Granville said. “The sharpness of the line here…” He reached over and ran his thumb along the fine stubble of Benedict’s jaw. “And here…” he continued, looking from the painting to Benedict and back again, pushing Benedict’s collar aside to reveal his collarbone, “... the shadowing here is perfection.” Their eyes met and in the next breathless moment, Benedict was pressing his lips to Granville’s, all clumsy hunger and unnamed need. But when his hand moved to skim Granville’s thigh, the older man caught his wrist and held it. “We can’t,” he said. 

Benedict felt as if the wind had been knocked from his body. He stumbled back from Granville, burning with shame and desire both. “Of course, of course not, how stupid of me to presume. I only wanted… well, I suppose it’s obvious what I wanted, but now I see it was foolishness to imagine you wanted what I wanted as well.”

“Bridgerton -“ 

Benedict threw the coverings back over the paintings and began to return them to their hiding place. “You really must forgive me. Genevieve often pokes fun at my ignorance of the world, but in these matters, she’s quite right. I am woefully inexperienced, and I see that I have overstepped. I apologize most profusely and hope I have not caused offense.”

Granville’s hand closed over Benedict’s as he gripped the top of his portrait. “You misunderstand,” he said, lowering the painting to the ground. Without letting go of Benedict’s hand, he shifted his body closer and pressed Benedict’s palm to the hardness straining at his pants. “I knew what you wanted from the moment we met, perhaps before you knew it yourself. And make no mistake, Bridgerton, I want it too. Very, very badly. When I say  _ we can’t _ , I only mean we can’t do this here and now, in your home, where anyone might discover us at any moment. It isn’t safe. Do we understand each other now?”

Benedict licked his lips and nodded, but all he wanted to do was kiss Granville’s mouth again. Granville stepped back and cleared his throat, taking a moment to collect himself, before saying, “Friday next. Lucy and I have invited some friends for a little supper. You and Madame Delacroix ought to join us, if you’ve no prior engagements.”

Benedict shook his head, not trusting his voice, but finally managed, “Thank you for the invitation. I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Granville replied and headed back into the sunlit disarray of the nursery. “No need to see me out,” he said. Then waving his hand in the direction of the abandoned fruit, he added, “You keep working on this one. The color is a bit off on those grapes.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m sure you will,” Granville replied and Benedict could hear the smile in his voice as he said it. “Good day, Bridgerton,” Granville said, and disappeared beyond the door. 

For Benedict, Friday could not come fast enough. 


	3. Chapter 3

For Eloise, Friday seemed a lifetime away. It was the one day there were no dreaded balls to attend, no painful picnics or promenades that required her presence. After making her debut at court (uneventful), and attending the opening ball of the season thrown by her own sister, now the Duchess of Hastings (boring) and spending more time at the modiste than she ever had before or ever wanted to again (unnecessary), Eloise was already exhausted - and the season had barely begun! 

The day was warm, her dress too tight, her hair curled and held uncomfortably in place with innumerable pins. Eloise stood on the sidelines of the luncheon counting the minutes until she could make her escape.

“Enjoying yourself, sister?” Daphne appeared at her side, looking fresh as a daisy, as always. One would never guess that she had just birthed a child not two months ago. 

“Yes,” Eloise replied, her tone flat. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Daphne laughed and shook her head. “I’m afraid you won’t attract many suitors with so sour a countenance.”

“What if i don’t want to attract many suitors.. or any at all, for that matter!”

“You will,” Daphne said knowingly. “Trust me, you will.”

“You don’t understand,” Eloise replied. “What was it you said about the Duke when you were courting… that you  _ longed _ for him? I don’t feel like that for anyone. I don’t even know what it means to feel that way and honestly Daphne, I don’t think I ever will.”

Daphne linked her arm with Eloise’s. “Come with me,” she said, and led her sister towards the garden, away from the crowd circling the tables of food and eyeing each other up and down. Away from prying eyes - and ears - as they looked at the fragrant lilac trees in bloom, Daphne said, “I know it’s difficult to be kept in the dark about everything. Mama’s vague explanations hardly prepared me for the realities of marriage. I had to ask Rose about… well, we’ll get to all that. For now, let me tell you something Simon told me. It may shock you to hear it, but it may also help you to understand certain… feelings a little better.”

Eloise stared at Daphne blankly. “What on earth are you talking about?” 

In little more than a whisper, Daphne said, “When you are alone, in bed for instance, you may touch yourself.”

“Touch myself?”

“Touch your body, anywhere you like. But especially,  _ down there.” _

“Down where?”

“Between your legs. And when you find a feeling that you particularly like, you keep going until you reach a sort of climax. It may help to think of a gentleman who you fancy. Imagine him kissing you, stroking your hair, touching your… well, you’ll discover what suits you best. After you are married, your husband will take over the touching and -“

“Let a man touch me? Down there?? Are you mad?!” Eloise stared at her sister with an expression of pure horror.

Daphne sighed. “Perhaps I’m not explaining it very well,” she said. “Just take my word for it and give it a try. Once you know what that feeling is, how exquisite it can be, I promise you will better understand what all the fuss is about finding a husband. You may even be more inclined to find one for yourself!”

“I highly doubt that, sister,” Eloise scoffed in reply, but something in what Daphne said stayed with her, bubbling in the back of her mind, like a pot left to boil that she could not help but keep watching. 

That night, Eloise found sleep would not come. She tossed and turned and shut her eyes tight and willed her mind to stop racing from one thing to the next - but it was no use.  “Alright,” she whispered at last. “Can’t hurt to give it a go.”

Eloise flipped onto her back and let her hands slide beneath her nightgown. She ran her fingers over her breasts, and down the length of her torso and belly, stopping at the tops of her thighs. Somewhat self-consciously, she brought one hand to rest in the space between her legs, but felt nothing at all. She closed her eyes and tried to think of a gentleman, as Daphne had suggested, but her mind went blank. 

_ What is a feeling I particularly like _ , Eloise asked herself.  _ What makes me feel good?  _ Then, to her surprise, there was an answer to the question; a familiar laugh and a gentle touch, red hair and yellow silk, rosy cheeks and candy-pink lips.  _ Penelope.  _

Suddenly the hand moving between her legs was not hers, but Pen’s - warm and sure. She could all but feel Pen next to her, Pen who saw her for who she was, Pen who was kind and quick-witted and so much more beautiful than she knew. Eloise felt her breath coming in gasps, felt something start to build within her, something that was unlike anything she had felt before. 

There was wetness on her fingers, Eloise realized with a start, and quickly freed her hand to wipe it on the bedsheet. She had not wet herself like a toddling child, of that much she was sure, nor were her courses due. And yet, here she was… leaking. 

Eloise pressed her thighs together and hoped that whatever was wrong with her body would set itself right. She was filled with a strange sense of shame and also a frustration that she didn’t quite understand.  _ Was it because I thought about Pen and not some stupid boy,  _ she wondered. Then, her eyes widened in the dark as a new thought crossed her mind.  _ Does Pen think of me too?  _

Eloise knew it could not be so - Penelope had told her that she wanted all those things that Eloise had professed she did not; courtship and marriage and children. It was only as she was finally falling asleep that Eloise came to a realization. She turned her head and murmured into her pillow, “It’s not that I don’t want those things, Pen. It’s only that I want them with you.”

*****

When Friday came at last, Penelope arrived at the Bridgerton Estate, only to have Eloise drag her immediately upstairs, past the drawing room where Lady Bridgerton was in near hysterics. 

“What’s all the commotion?” Penelope asked, once they were safely behind the closed door of Eloise’s bedroom. 

“Have you seen the latest Whistledown report?” 

“I have not.”

“Well - it contains the usual useless observations of this season’s crop of debutantes, a word or two of praise for Daphne’s ball, but at the very end, there is a small note questioning Colin’s absence.”

“Really?”

“Yes, can you believe it? Whistledown suggests that perhaps he’s staying abroad in light of the scandal with Miss Thompson last season.” Eloise paced the room and continued, “Poor taste really to bring all that up again, especially now that Marina is a married woman!”

“Indeed,” Penelope agreed. “Your mother is taking it well, I see.”

“Mama is demanding that Anthony go to France himself and escort Colin home at once.”

“My goodness!” Penelope said, then after a pause, “I suppose it will be nice to see him again after all this time.”

“Who cares about Colin?” Eloise retorted. “What we need to do is get our hands on that report and scour it for clues as to Whistledown’s true identity!”

“Of course,” Penelope replied. “Should we go look at it now?”

Eloise made a face. “No. Watching mama work herself into a frenzy makes my head spin. She’ll be off to see Daphne and the baby soon enough. Then we can examine the evidence in peace.”

“What shall we do in the meantime?”

Eloise hesitated, then said, “Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What is it?”

“You must promise not to think less of me. And… you must promise not to laugh.”

“Eloise, I could never think less of you.”

Summoning her nerve, Eloise asked, “Do you… touch yourself? At night. Down there.”

Penelope’s lips parted in a surprised  _ oh _ and a blush rose to her cheeks, but she answered honestly, “Well, yes. I do. I suppose everyone does.”

“Everyone!” Eloise repeated, flabbergasted. She had expected Penelope to be just as surprised as she was to hear of such a thing. “Am I truly the last to know everything?” Then she bit her lip and asked, “What do you think of when you do it?”

Penelope didn’t quite know how to answer. “Oh, different things,” she said. “Different people. But why are you -“

“I think of you,” Eloise blurted out. She hadn’t meant to say so, but now there it was between them. She rushed to explain, “Daphne told me I ought to try it, but it wasn’t quite as she said, although it wasn’t horrible either, except just when I thought I was startling to feel something, I started… leaking like an old tin pail with a hole in it! I think something’s really the matter with me, Pen. Daphne told me to think of a gentleman, but I didn’t. I could only think of you and I know that’s wrong, but it didn’t feel wrong.” Eloise blinked back sudden tears. “Why can’t I just be like everyone else?”

Then Penelope was there next to her, gathering Eloise into an embrace. “There’s nothing the matter with you, El, nothing at all,” she said. “I would never want you to be like everyone else - I love that you’re not! You’re special, Eloise. I believe you can do anything you want.”

“You do?” Eloise said. Her lashes were wet and her lips were trembling. 

Penelope nodded. She loved the way Eloise felt in her arms, and now that they had come this far, there was no going back. “I think of you too,” she said softly. “When I touch myself, I think of you too.” She didn’t wait for Eloise to respond, but drew her in for a kiss. When their lips parted, Eloise stared at Penelope wide-eyed. Penelope let loose a nervous laugh. “That’s the first time I’ve kissed anyone,” she confessed. 

“That’s the first time I’ve been kissed,” Eloise replied.

“Can I kiss you again?”

“I shall die if you do not.”

Then they were kissing and tumbling together into Eloise’s bed. Eloise fumbled with the buttons of Pen’s dress, desperate to feel the soft skin it concealed, and even when the dress fell away and Pen was left only in her white petticoat, Eloise wanted more of her still, all of her, only her, always and forever. “Show me how you do it,” she whispered between kisses. “Show me how you touch yourself.”

Penelope felt as if she had drunk one too many cups of cordial. She had imagined kissing Eloise, touching her, knowing her in this way so many times. But the real thing was a hundred times better. Eloise wore no stockings and it was easy for Pen to slip her hand beneath the fall of her friend’s dress, sliding her palm up the inside of Eloise’s leg, until it rested between her thighs. “It’s easier if I show you like this,” she said. “May I?”

Eloise nodded and then gasped as she felt Penelope’s fingers stroking that soft, secret place she had only just discovered for herself. Paired with Pen’s mouth pressed to her mouth, her neck, her ear, Pen whispering, “Is this good? Do you like this? This is how I touch myself when I think of you, my sweet El,” it was more than Eloise could bear. She was shaking, clinging to Penelope, biting her lip and trying not to cry out, as the pleasure Pen had awakened in her reached its peak. Her body went taught and she muffled a scream into her pillow, before she let herself go limp and breathless, staring up into Pen’s bright eyes. Almost as an afterthought, Eloise brought her own hand down between her legs and was mortified to find the same wetness as before - so much more of it now - dampening the bedsheet. 

“It’s happening again, Pen!” Eloise said, showing Penelope her slick fingers. “See?”

Penelope caught Eloise’s hand in hers and examined it. Then, with the tip of her tongue, she carefully licked the wet from each fingertip. “I think…” she said, “... it’s meant to happen. I think it… eases the passage for the man’s part to go in.”

Eloise’s eyes widened. “Is that what happens?”

“I believe so.”

“I don’t want that,” Eloise said, surprising even herself with how firmly and completely she knew that to be true. 

Penelope smiled and brushed back a tendril of dark hair. “Then it shan’t be,” she said, before dipping her head to kiss Eloise again. 

Even as she was being kissed, Eloise’s hands explored Pen’s body beneath her petticoat. When she ventured between Pen’s legs, she suddenly had an overwhelming desire to  _ see _ what it was she touched. She was tired of being in the dark. And for once, she had all the information she needed right here in front of her. 

Without breaking the kiss, Eloise sat up and put her arms around Penelope, pulling the petticoat up. Penelope broke away. “What are you doing?” 

“I want to see you.”

Penelope frowned slightly. “You…  _ can _ see me.”

“I want to see  _ all _ of you.” When Penelope hesitated still, Eloise quickly pulled her own dress off so that she was naked in the bed. It felt as if she was exactly where she was meant to be. “And I want you to see all of me.”

“Oh, El,” Pen breathed. “You’re so beautiful.”

Eloise smiled. She would have scoffed at such flattery from anyone else, but when Penelope said it, it sounded true. She tried again to take Penelope’s petticoat off, but Pen stayed her hand. “I’m not… well, I’m not so shapely as you. Mother says it’s too many sweets, but the truth is I’ve always been a bit plump and I think I always will be, no matter what I eat. It’s just the way that I am.” Penelope shrugged and looked away. “I suppose I’d prefer to stay covered up.”

Eloise considered, then gave Penelope a light push so that she lay back on the pillows. “A compromise then,” Eloise said, as she wriggled down between Pen’s legs and pushed the petticoat up so that it bunched around her waist. 

“El, I don’t think -“ Penelope began, but her words were cut short by a gasp, when she felt Eloise’s fingers stroking her sex. There was warm breath between her thighs. Eloise’s face was right there. If she stuck out her tongue, she’d be able to taste the wetness right from the source. Penelope’s breath caught just thinking of it. Did people  _ do  _ such things? It was only a moment more before Eloise made the answer very clear. 

Then it didn’t matter if she was naked or clothed, or what she ate or didn’t eat, or what her mother thought, or what Colin thought, or what anybody in the world thought, except Eloise. And Eloise was kissing her all over, tasting her, pushing the petticoat aside and burying her face between Penelope’s breasts, straddling her hips and taking her face between firm hands, gazing down at her with such intensity that Pen could not look away, 

“Listen to me, Penelope Featherington, you are perfect just the way you are and don’t you dare let anyone tell you otherwise. Say it.”

“Eloise, I’m hardly -“

“Say it!.” Eloise kissed her so fiercely then that there was no room left for arguments. “You’re perfect just as you are.”

A little breathless still, Penelope looked up at Eloise. “I’m perfect just as I am.”

“And beautiful,” Eloise coaxed, pressing her hand to the heat between Penelope’s thighs. 

“And beautiful,” Pen repeated, the words nearly a sob, as waves of pleasure overtook her. 

“And mine,” Eloise said. “Always.”

The climax rocked Penelope to her core. She knew well enough how to pleasure herself and did so often, but this was something altogether different. A life with Eloise flashed before Penelope’s eyes, a life as friends and as lovers. As spinsters. What would El say if she knew that her desire was a fractured thing, that it cried out for a man’s kiss and a woman’s caress at the same time? What would she say if she came to know Pen’s secret identity, if one day all of her bluffing began to feel less like a jest and and more like a betrayal? What then? Penelope had no answers. What she did have was Eloise Bridgerton, warm and naked in her arms, and for now, that was enough. 

“And yours,” she replied softly. “Always.”


	4. Chapter 4

The night breeze was cool when Benedict and Genevieve stepped out of the carriage in front of Henry Granville’s home. Benedict knocked on the door and a moment later, Lucy Granville was ushering them both inside with a smile. The atmosphere was lively - music played, wine and brandy flowed freely, people laughed and danced and argued good-naturedly about art and God and love. As Benedict followed Lucy down the hallway and accepted the drink she placed in his hand, he felt the place that had been empty inside him while Granville had been away, slowly begin to fill with warmth again. And with something else as well - anticipation. 

“It is wonderful to have you back in London, Lady Granville,” Benedict said. 

Lucy laughed at this and shook her head. “I think once you have had your cock in a woman’s mouth, while I have had her cunt in mine, it is time to move beyond formalities, don’t you agree?”

Benedict colored at the reminder. “Forgive me,” he said, taking her hand in his and pressing his lips to her rich, brown skin. “It’s good to see you again, Lucy. You and Henry were missed.”

“I trust you found someone with whom to pass the time while we were gone,” Lucy said, her tone teasing, her eyes resting on Genevieve. 

Benedict was unsure how to answer. “Yes, well… Mme. Delacroix and I… Genevieve has been…”

Genevieve and Lucy shared a laugh at his stuttering. “Mr. Bridgerton has been nothing but a gentleman,” Genevieve said. 

“I sincerely hope not,” Lucy replied, linking her arm with Genevieve’s and pulling her away. Over her shoulder, she said, “You’ll find Henry upstairs. I believe he wants to discuss the matter of a painting with you.”

Benedict downed his drink too quickly and made his way to the second floor. Granville’s house was modest compared to the Bridgerton estate, with only a handful of rooms to be found at the top of the stairs. One door was closed, but the woman’s cries from within left little doubt as to what might be taking place behind it. The next door was ajar and Benedict paused to take in the tangle of bodies on the bed - six people in all, fucking or being fucked, moaning and writhing, begging and cumming. A boy younger than Benedict stood at the foot of the bed, easel placed in front of him, waving a paintbrush in one hand and a wine bottle in the other. When he noticed Benedict watching the scene, he called out, “You’re welcome to join us, Sir!”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Benedict said, backing away from the door. “Sorry to interrupt.”

The boy grinned, eyeing Benedict up and down. “You know where to find us if you change your mind,” he said. 

The third door Benedict came to was open - the master suite, by the looks of it. The room was dimly lit, with only a few candles burning and a small fire crackling in the grate. Granville stood by the open window, sketchbook abandoned on the seat in front of him, smoke from his cigar floating away on the wind. Benedict took a deep breath to try and slow the pounding of his heart, then knocked lightly on the open door. 

Granville turned at the sound and smiled at what he saw. “Bridgerton,” he said. “Glad you could make it.” He snuffed the cigar and crossed to a small, brass cart holding an array of bottles and crystal glasses. “Can I offer you a drink?”

The wine he had consumed so quickly still burned in Benedict’s belly, but he nodded. “Thank you,” he said. 

Granville poured sherry from a decanter and held it out. Benedict took the glass, grateful to have something to do with his hands, and gulped it down. Granville chuckled. “Slowly, Bridgerton, slowly,” he said. “Savor it. There’s no rush.” Benedict met Granville’s gaze and waited, very nearly holding his breath, for the painter to reach across the cart and kiss him. Instead, Granville walked past him and closed the bedroom door. He came to stand next to Benedict and pointed at the wall above the four-poster bed. “I’d like to buy your painting,” he said. “Hang it right there.”

“Which one?” Benedict asked. “The winter scene or -“

“I think you know which one interests me.”

Benedict‘s mouth twitched. “I could wager a guess,” he said. Then, “It’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

Benedict paused. “A million pounds.”

Granville laughed. “Had I such a princely sum, I would gladly pay it. Alas, I am but a lowly artist.” He turned to face Benedict, letting his eyes travel the young man’s smooth face, and down the length of his body, returning to linger on the green eyes reflecting the firelight. “Perhaps you would consider a trade.”

“Perhaps I would,” Benedict replied. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, a good many things,” Granville said, moving to sit at the foot of the bed. “But really, Bridgerton, it’s up to you. What do you want?”

“What shall I ask for?” Benedict replied, still playing along. “A painting? One of yours for one of mine? Or maybe some private tutelage? I’m not likely to improve any more on my own. Or else -“

“Benedict,” Granville cut him off. “Look at me. What do you want?” He asked the question lightly, but the expression on his face was serious, his eyes demanding an honest reply. 

Benedict opened his mouth to speak but found no words. Granville knew exactly what he wanted, he had made that much clear, and Benedict had expected - had hoped - that there would be no need for explanations between them. His older brother Anthony was the charmer, his younger brother Colin the flirt; he himself was neither, always feeling awkward somehow, always unsure. But now, alone in this room with Henry, feeling the desire rising from him like waves of steam, Benedict had never felt more sure in his life. “I want you,” he said. “I want to know you, the way Wetherby knows you.”

“You want to fuck me.”

“Yes”

“Then come here.”

Benedict accepted the hands Granville extended and found himself pulled onto the bed. He surrendered to the long kiss he had wanted from the start, even as his fingers fumbled to unbutton and unbuckle, almost of their own will. By contrast, Granville undressed Benedict deliberately, pausing to revel in each new part he uncovered. It was only when Granville hooked his thumbs in Benedict’s drawers and pulled them off, leaving them both naked at last, that Benedict felt a moment’s hesitation. He had acted rashly when he had invited Granville to his home. It was fortunate that one of them had been thinking clearly. He was not some nobody that he could afford to be caught in such a compromising position. He was a Bridgerton, with all that name brought with it.  Benedict glanced at the door, thinking again of the scene he had once walked in on - Granville pinned to the wall, arms and legs wrapped around his lover, Wetherby’s lean hips thrusting forward, both of them lost in a haze of ecstasy and lust. Benedict’s cock swelled and stiffened as he thought of it and he drew in his breath sharply as he felt Granville’s fist close around the shaft. “Henry,” he murmured, “are you sure we should…? What if someone should come in?”

“Relax, Bridgerton,” Granville replied. “The door’s locked. I anticipated that there might be some… negotiating for your work. I thought it best if we were uninterrupted.” Then Granville took Benedict’s face between his hands and held it fast, only a few inches from his own. “You’re safe here,” he said. And Benedict knew it was true, 

It was not as Benedict had imagined it might be between men - something rough and rushed, a hunger to be sated and not spoken of again, a ravaging. Instead, Granville took his time, kissing and stroking and questioning, putting words to his acts in a way that inflamed Benedict’s passion. “What a gorgeous cock you have, Bridgerton,” he said. “ I could amuse myself with it like this for days. Oh, you like that do you? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do - I’m going to take all of you, every inch of your cock, and I’m going to fuck you with my mouth.”

Benedict made some small sound in response, but he was barely listening. He was consumed by the sensation of Granville working his cock with firm strokes, and when he replaced his hand with the wet heat of his mouth and his constricting throat, Benedict was lost to the world. He didn’t notice Granville working his fingers into his own ass, nor the oil he produced from beneath a pillow. He did notice when Granville coated his cock liberally with the slick substance and sat up to ask him, “What do you prefer - from behind or face to face?”

Benedict paused only a moment, then said, “I think… face to face.”

“Good choice,” Granville replied, laying back on the pillows and pulling Benedict down on top of him. He wrapped his legs around Benedict’s waist and giving his buttocks a caress, gently urged him forward. 

Benedict took his cock in hand and finding the entrance he sought, began to push in. He paused when Granville moaned, unsure whether the sound conveyed pain or pleasure. He suddenly remembered the first time Anthony had taken him to a brothel, the way the girls had giggled at his nervousness, how it had all been over barely after it had begun. He had learned his way around a woman’s body since then and indeed, Genevieve had taught him a new trick or two, but he had never been with a man this way and he found himself gripped by a familiar uncertainty. “Henry,” he said, his voice low and halting, “I don’t know what you like. If… I’m not doing this right, if there’s something else you want, please tell me.”

Granville put his arms around Benedict’s neck. “Remember what I told you - go slowly. Savor it. And for God’s sake, Bridgerton, don’t stop.” 

So Benedict fucked him, just as he asked. And, Granville, for his part, talked to Benedict throughout, telling him when he wanted it faster, harder, telling him what felt good, telling him to go deeper, and when he saw Benedict’s face contort, felt his pace reach a frenzy, he pulled him in tight and told him to cum. 

Afterwards, Benedict and Granville lay side by side, relaxed in each other’s company, sharing a cigar between them. Eventually, Granville asked, “Was it as you thought it would be?”

“Not exactly,” Benedict replied. Then turning to face Granville, he quickly added, “But it was good. It was _very_ good.” His eyes moved down Granville’s body and it was with some hesitation that he asked, “Was it good for you as well?” Benedict only then realized that he alone had reached climax. 

“Oh yes, dear boy,” Granville said. “You needn’t worry about that.”

“But you didn’t finish,” Benedict protested. 

Granville stroked his cock leisurely. “Sometimes it’s like that,” he said. “It’s not a race to the finish line, you know.” Benedict watched, transfixed, as Granville’s cock hardened in his hand, and Granville watched Benedict, watching him. 

Benedict felt he had never known someone as at home in their own body as Henry Granville. “Don’t move,” he said, and crossed the room to retrieve the sketchbook and bit of charcoal left on the window seat. “I want to draw you like this,” he said. 

“As you like,” Granville replied, his smile easy, his cock thick and rigid. “How would you have me?”

“As you are - one hand behind your head, turn to me, yes, perfect.” 

Granville closed his eyes and jerked himself off, while Benedict sketched. It was only at the last moment, when he couldn’t hold it any longer, that he pierced Benedict with a searing gaze and demanded, “Get over here and kiss me, Bridgerton.”

Benedict let the book fall to the floor and crushed himself to Granville’s body, kissing him with a fire he had not known he possessed. Granville’s spend was hot between them, and Benedict ran his thumb over the wet tip of his cock, sending a shiver through his body. Granville rested his forehead against Benedict’s, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other stroking the side of his face. In all the times Benedict had lain with women - Genevieve and others - he had never known an intimacy like this. “Thank you, Henry,” Benedict said softly. 

Granville stretched and smiled. “I ought to thank you,” he said. “I find myself in possession of a very special work of art.”

Benedict laughed. “Granville, you must know the portrait was always yours. I painted it for you. Although Lucy might object to waking up to my face above her bed every day.”

“Not just your face!” Granville quipped. “But perhaps I’ll buy the portrait of Mme. Delacroix as well. Then we’d both be happy.” As an afterthought, Granville asked, “Do you intend to marry her?”

“Genevieve?” Benedict shook his head. “As much as we care for one another, I have no illusions about the nature of Mme. La Modiste’s feelings toward me. I doubt she’d marry me, even if I asked. And besides, I’m a Bridgerton, remember? My sister is a duchess. I have no doubt my mother already has a list a mile long of suitable prospects to be my future bride.”

Granville nodded sympathetically. “What will you do?” he asked. 

Benedict shrugged. “The good thing about being the second son is that for the most part, people are only interested in the fate of the first son. I feel for Anthony, I do. I know he hasn’t had an easy time with matters of the heart, but I will admit, I don’t envy him the pressures that being heir to an estate brings with it.”

After a moment’s thought, Granville said, “Well, if you are in no hurry to be wed, perhaps you might consider joining Lucy and I in Paris when the season comes to an end. I have been thinking of bringing on an assistant. The pay is not much, but we know a good many people there who I think you would enjoy meeting.” At Benedict’s silence, Granville continued, “Think it over at least. I understand if -“

“I don’t need to think it over,” Benedict said. “This is a most generous offer, I hardly know what to say.”

“Say yes.”

“Yes,” Benedict said, “Yes, of course yes, a thousand times yes!” He was laughing and speaking and kissing Granville’s mouth all at once. His life felt like it was finally beginning. 

Granville kissed him back, rolling with him around the big bed, until he straddled Benedict’s narrow hips, and leaned forward to clasp each of Benedict’s hands in his, pinning him to the sheets. He took in Benedict’s flushed face and full lips, and felt the younger man hardening again beneath him. “You are a revelation, Bridgerton,” he said, before burying his face in Benedict’s neck. “What do you suppose the infamous Lady Whistledown would have to say about this?”

“I shudder to think,” Benedict replied. “Whoever she is - she does have an uncanny ability to discover all manner of scandal. For all we know, she could be a fly on the wall in this very room!”

“In that case,” Granville replied, a mischievous glint in his eye as he began to slide down Benedict’s body, “let’s give her something to write about!”


End file.
